


Los Santos Radio

by murbeft



Category: Rooster Teeth/Achievement Hunter RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - Grand Theft Auto Setting, Fake AH Crew, Multi, Pre-Fake AH Crew
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-12-22
Updated: 2018-05-01
Packaged: 2019-02-18 09:55:54
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,481
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13097655
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/murbeft/pseuds/murbeft
Summary: "For those stuck in traffic, tune in to the Los Santos radio dial for a wide range of music styles to choose from. From the sound of the street on Radio Los Santos, Non Stop Pop FM's infectious tunes, FlyLo FMs cutting-edge dance music or the funk of Space 103.2, you won't want to sit still, even if you have been in traffic for hours."A series of oneshots and ficlets with the Fake AH Crew (and friends), each inspired by a song featured on the radio waves of Los Santos.





	1. Garbage (Ryan/Reader)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First Chapter Warnings: Drug use, violence/torture, brief mention of non-consensual touching.
> 
> Song inspo: "Garbage" by Tyler, The Creator  
> Radio Station In-Game: FlyLo FM
> 
> I'm always taking requests for the next chapters, so feel free to give me a Character and a Song from the GTA V soundtrack!

_hello/_

_i’m a salesman/_

_sorta giant/_

_i sell molly and mary/_

_and other various items/_

_one time one guy came to where im residing/_

_and i didn’t invite him, so instead tried to fight him/_

_i got violent/_

_long story short, he’s not breathin’/_

_for some reason i liked it and it was really exciting/_

_couldn’t stop the addiction/_

_and the irony is/_

_a couple junkies went missing/_

_and i know right where they’re hiding/_

 

Red.

Red. 

Red.

Red.

 

Green.

Your foot moved to the gas pedal, giving it just enough to get the shitbox sedan you were in a push down the road. It was an older model Emperor, all boxy exterior and all leather interior. It handled like a whale on asphalt, and every time you made a left turn you heard this loud rattling from what you were sure was either the muffler or the back wheels.

Oddly, you didn’t mind; you were pretty sure the car was stolen anyway.

You didn’t know much about the job, other than the set of keys you were mailed along with instructions to bring the vehicle they belonged to to a Vinewood theater in the middle of the night. The $1000 that was also in the envelope was a plus, though you couldn’t shake the thought that that was in fact dried blood on some of the bills.

Vinewood Boulevard was damn near abandoned this time of night. Nothings but hookers and junkies lining the bus benches and street corners. An empty loading lane usually packed with StarTours buses came into your view, and you pulled into it, idling in front of the Whirligig Theater.

Impatiently, you tapped the clock on the dash, wondering if it was correct considering none of the other gauges seemed to work on this hunk of junk. _This is just a job,_ you kept repeating to yourself.

Two sharp taps on the passenger window stopped you from chewing on your nails, and you squinted through the dark to look at who was making the noise. You half-expected it to be just another hooker, and prepared yourself to yell in their face when you saw a pair of dark eyes staring in at you.

“‘Bout damn time,” you sighed and unlocked the door. With a creak, the passenger side door swung open and a broad, leather and denim-clad frame slid into the seat. The shocks, or lack there of, dipped as he settled into the seat and shut the door.

“Drive.”

You knew Ryan was a man of few words. And you were lucky enough for him to tell him your name. The two of you met under less than ideal circumstances. You, a coked out junkie in the middle of dumpster diving for food; and he, a small time dealer and big time career criminal trying to dispose of several body parts in the same dumpster.

Normally, he would have pulled the trigger and been worried about having to get more trash bags; but he told you that there was something about you that intrigued him.

He never said what.

Months of withdrawal, detox, and running errands lead to you in the driver’s seat of the Emperor, driving from place to place, keeping the engine running while you heard gunshots in the near distance. It was the same every time. Two shots. Silence. Then calm steps back to the car, followed by two taps on the window and the same word every time. 

“Drive.”

After the fifth stop, you couldn’t take it anymore. The mystery and your impatience ate at you in the void that your addiction left behind. As the passenger door slammed shut you were already going off.

“You couldn’t drive yourself around all goddamn night? You had to pay me to do this for you? And instead of telling me what exactly I was getting into, you just give me a wad of cash and some vague ass directions to see you somewhere with this rolling probable cause mobile!”

After the words left your mouth, they hung in the space between you two in the car, fading into the deafening silence that you got from Ryan. He only looked at you, taking in the features of your face for a beat, then handing you a map. A red circle was drawn over one of the shipyards on Elysian Island, down at the Port of Los Santos. 

“Drive.”

The only thing you could seem to do was yell in frustration and turn the radio on. You would be goddamned if you had to make that long drive in more silence. FlyLo FM it is, then.

The sun was just barely starting to peek over the horizon by the time you two made it to what seemed to be your final destination. As you were about the park the car, Ryan protested and gave you detailed instructions of exactly how and where he wanted the car. You were too tired to fight with him at this point. It took you a few tries to get the car exactly how he wanted it to be parked, each time you gave the wheel a sharp turn the same rattling from the back.

“Stupid shitty car. Exhaust is about to drop out of the bottom every time I turn the damn wheel.”

“Not the exhaust that’s the problem.”

“Then its a loose wheel.”

“Eh, yeah, you can call it that.”

You swore that the corner of his mouth turned up in a smile.

When the Emperor was just right, you turned off the engine and handed Ryan the keys. In return, he handed you a heavy pistol. It was still warm to the touch and had the faint smell of gunpowder. It was clearly the one he had been using earlier.

“Thanks, I suppose? I never knew I wanted a gun.”

“Oh you will,” this time you knew Ryan was smiling. 

Before you could speak, you heard the rattling again. Confused, you looked at the car keys still in Ryan’s hands. That was when you heard the muffled screaming. 

Ryan covered his face with a skull mask and opened the car door, motioning with his head for you to join him outside. 

The walk around to the trunk of the Emperor felt like a death march. Ryan was already there, fumbling with the lock on the trunk. Finally, he gave it a Fonzie-esque punch and the latch popped open.

He motioned with his free hand and said, “Take a look inside.”

Two steps forward, you seemed to lean on your tip toes, too afraid to get any closer. The rising sunlight lit up just enough of the interior of the trunk you leapt back.

Inside was a man, bound head to toe with zip ties and duct tape. An eye was bloodied swollen shut, and his clothes were covered in blood. Likely his own. Both arms were tied behind his back but you could quickly tell that his right arm wasn’t meant to bend that way. It had been forcibly broken.

You quickly realized that this mass of flesh was rattling around in the trunk of the car, making noise every time you turned down a side street. Cautiously, you took a step forward again, trying to make sense of the bloodied pulp that once was this guy’s face.

Ryan said a name, but you already knew. The memory shot through you like lightning and suddenly you were 18 again in the back room of the Vanilla Unicorn. Waxing poetic about your dreams to become more than a meth head from Stab City while a sleazy guy handed you a rolled up $20 and a mirror with lines of cocaine on it. Every time you would do a line, his hands would wander across your skin just enough to make it crawl. The beginning of your wasted years on the stress could all be traced back to this guy. And now here he was, served up on a platter in front of you.

Suddenly the pistol in your hand felt heavier than normal. You looked to Ryan who stood just behind you, hands clasped in front of himself, almost pleased at his actions.

“You did this?”

Ryan nodded, “I figured you’ve done a lot for me; I’d find a way to pay you back with more than just cash.”

“So he’s been in the trunk all night?”

“…And day. The car may have sat in the sun for at least four hours, but who’s counting.”

“I don’t get it. Why make all the other stops with him in the trunk? Just for torture?”

“I’d call it ‘for fun’ but no. As of tonight I control the import and export of every illegal narcotic in Los Santos,” Ryan gestured to the writhing body in the trunk, “Except for this asshole.”

You scoffed, “So now you’ve got a monopoly on the cartel. As long as I’ve known you I’ve never even seen you smoke a cigarette.”

“But now I can make sure you’ll never start using again,” Ryan brushed past you and fully opened the trunk, “By the way, any last words there, buddy?”

Before you could say anything in response, he reached down and ripped off the worn duct tape from the man’s mouth. Hoarse screams and expletives came in waves.

“I’LL SEE YOU BURNT ALIVE FOR THIS, VAGABOND. NOBODY CAN CROSS ME, YOU HEAR ME? NOBODY. I WILL DESTROY YOUR ENTIRE LIFE AND EVERYTHING YOU HOLD DEAR.”

Almost impressed, Ryan turned to look at you and motioned to the pistol still in your hands.

“You’ve got a choice. You can join me and I’ll teach you how to live a clean life of crime,” he gently patted the duct tape back on before walking back towards you, “Or you can let this sniveling pile of fecal matter go and he can keep the cycle of drugs in and out of the city going and going and going.”

Ryan stood behind you once more, and your grip on the pistol tightened. You had never killed any one before; never even welcomed the thought. All you could hear was your heart beat echoing in your ears. 

But you had dreams. And this was your chance to make them a reality.

Closing your eyes, you pulled the trigger, and everything went quiet.

Seconds that felt like hours went by before you opened your eyes. A splattering of blood and viscera was all over the trunk. The body was still moving.

You heard laughter behind you, saying, “Right for the kneecaps! Enough to cause excruciating pain but just enough to keep them alive to feel it. You’ve got balls, kid. But I do have one piece of constructive criticism.”

Turning, you watched as Ryan lit a molotov cocktail and threw it into the open trunk of the car. Blue eyes peered through the skull mask at you, and you could see a glint of a smile in his eyes.

“Next time you fire your gun,” Ryan reached up and took the skull mask off, handing it to you, “Keep your eyes open. Here. You’ve earned this.”

You took the mask in your hands, surprised by the gesture. His arm wrapped around your shoulder, pulling you close. It was an odd sentimental moment, the two of you watching a man burn alive in the trunk of a car as the sun rose. After some time, a stevedore used a crane to dump the burnt remains of the Emperor into the harbor in exchange for a couple hundred bucks. A wave energy washed over you as Ryan gave your arm a tug, signaling that it was time to go.

As you fell in step next to him, you finally asked the question that had been bugging you:

“So you seriously kept him hog tied in that trunk all day?”

“Oh yeah. To be honest, I kind of forgot about him for a couple hours.”

“That’s malicious, Ryan.”

Again, he shrugged, “Sorta.”


	2. ADHD (Jeremy x Reader)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Second Chapter Warnings: Drug use, some swears, a little bit of fisticuffs
> 
> Song inspo: "A.D.H.D." by Kendrick Lamar  
> Radio Station In-Game: Radio Los Santos

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Gavin voice] We're back, bitches!  
> Ok, no but really, here's a chapter. Sorry for the delay, etc. etc. Admittedly this one got away from me towards the end, but I just had to get it out of my brain in order to move on.
> 
> I'm always taking requests for the next chapters, so feel free to give me a Character and a Song from the GTA V soundtrack!

_Cold water/_

_then I order/_

_someone to bring him vicodin/_

_Hope they take the pain away/_

_From the feeling that he feel today/_

_You know when you part of section 80/_

_And you feeling like no one can relate/_

_Cause you are, you are/_

_A loner, loner/_

_Marijuana/_

_endorphins/_

_Make you stronger, stronger/_

 

Straightening the knot on your tie, you stared at your reflection in the mirror. Every hair atop your head in place. The lines of your button down shirt laid just so. Behind you, the bathroom door opened and a woman stumbled in dressed just like you. She was rifling around in her pockets as she stepped in line next to you by the sinks.

“Hey, I scored some coke off one of the bar backs. Wanna hit before the night rush?” She was already pinky-deep in the powder, taking two quick sniffs before holding the bag out towards your direction.

“I’ll have to pass this time. The last stuff you got kept me up for five days straight. I hallucinated that it was the end of the world and the only way to stay alive was to stay awake.”

In the corner of your eye, you noticed the dingy sign that said in all caps EMPLOYEES MUST WASH HANDS BEFORE RETURNING TO WORK. Instinctively, you ran your hands under the faucet and reached for the stack of paper towels. 

As you headed for the door you looked over your shoulder and said, “Make sure you clean up the dried blood under your nose this time. We pool tips and you’re killing me with that shit.”

Your fist hit the push panel on the door and a charming smile formed on your face. As you took your spot behind the bar, you surveyed the current clientele. _Not terrible for a weeknight. Might shake some cash loose from some of these drunks._

“Hello and welcome to Shenanigan’s Bar. Los Santos’ number one wine cellar and purveyors of the best craft cocktails on the West Coast! What can I get for you folks tonight?” The words left your lips like muscle memory to every Tom, Dick, and Harry that walked in and sat down in front of you.

As the night drew on it seemed as if it would be another typical week night. You had people that were clearly meeting one another for a secret rendezvous before the mister or missus inevitably finds out and demands a divorce. There were the old hats, the people who sat in the same chairs every night, ordered the same entree with the same drink, left the same paltry 10% tip on the bill.

What was different this night, however, was the cream colored cowboy hat that was gingerly placed on the bar. It caught your attention quickly, if this were a cartoon there would be dollar signs in your eyes. So it made for a nice surprise when you slid into this man’s line of sight and got a full look of him.

Purple sport coat, with a blazing orange shirt underneath. Mirrored sunglasses he refused to take off even in the very dim light by the bar. And was that splattered blood on his khakis?

No. Not the right color. More blue than red. Probably paint.

Before you could even start your scripted welcome line, he pointed at a bottle behind you on the bar shelf.

Jaegermeister.

You turned your back to him to remove the bottle from the shelf and pour a shot and by the time you turned back around two bottles of beer were in front of him. Clearly he had reached over the bar and taken them from the ice well.

Placing the full shot glass in front of him, you heard a low ‘thanks’ as he handed you a crumpled $50 bill.

“Keep the change.”

You poured him an extra shot. “Thanks. This one’s on the house.”

He reached for the second shot and placed it gently on the bar next to the other, returning his focus back to the beers he was practically double fisting.

The fifty looked worse for wear, likely near the end of its circulation. The ink had faded and there were small tears in the middle, ink splotches splayed across the lower corner. It looked like it had been run through the wash with some accountant’s fountain pen more than once. Still, the counterfeit pen proved it was legit and you tucked it under the tray of the cash register and pulled out the remainder in small bills, quietly pocketing them for yourself instead of stuffing them in the glass tip vase just to the left of the register.

A voice from the other end of the bar directed at you said, “Hey, turn up the TV! Someone robbed the Fleeca Bank!”

Quickly you stood on your tip toes, reaching behind the flat screen above you to find the volume button. The voice of a Weasel News reporter grew louder and suddenly filled up the space that held the quiet dinner conversation.

 

> _“…Once again coming to you live from the Downtown Los Santos branch of Fleeca Bank where it appears that a robbery has taken place. The LSPD does not have many leads at this time but they do believe that this robbery is tied to the notorious ‘Fake AH Crew’ that has taken responsibility for a number of reported crimes in the area over the past few years._

While the rest of the bar intently watched the broadcast, you noticed one particular patron had stiffened ever so slightly.

 

> _“What we do know at this time is that several thousands of dollars were stolen from the vault, which was triggered with what appears to be common plastic explosives. The money that was stolen did contain dye packs, although it is unclear at this time if they were triggered to explode or not._

Your eyes shot to the register where you had placed the $50 bill. That was not blue paint on his pants.

 

> _“Now what I would like to turn everyone’s attention to is the tire marks left by what LSPD believe to be the getaway car. I’ve been told by police that there was a specific type of tire that left these skid marks in the road. After running some quick forensic tests, they have confirmed that the tires were specially created to emit purple and orange smoke upon a burnout._

You noticed the two shots of jager still side by side on the bar. The TV behind you was now displaying mugshots of the Fake AH Crew.

 

> _“LSPD would like it known that if you do encounter any member of the Fake AH Crew, assume that they are armed and dangerous and to notify law enforcement immediately. Again, assume that they are armed and dangerous. More on this story as it develops. Back to the studio.”_

You reached up again to turn the volume back down to a reasonable level, people now muttering their concerns and theories to one another in hushed tones. Out of the corner of your eye, you saw two empty bottles get placed on your rubber bar mat, a universal sign they were empty. Again, a purple-clad arm reached over the bar to pluck a bottle from the ice well.

However as the arm pulled back, the two empty bottles tipped and fell behind the bar, hitting the floor with a shatter. 

Everyone turned to look for the source of the glass break. The room fell silent.

“Oh, no worries! Let me get that!” You rushed over to that end of the bar, quickly sweeping up the shards of glass with a calming smile, trying to will everyone back into ignorance of the purple and orange elephant in the room.

As you dumped a dust pan full of amber glass into the trash, you heard another low ‘thanks’ as you looked up into those mirrored sunglasses. 

Before you could say anything else, LSPD burst into Shenanigan’s, guns drawn and yelling. Your hands quickly shot into the air.

“LSPD GET DOWN ON THE GROUND. DOWN ON THE GROUND NOW.” They repeated this over and over as they drew closer in on you and the one person in front of you. Back turned to the cops, he raised one hand in the air, the other raised a single finger in the air, a silent plea for them to give him _just a minute_ as he slowly turned to face the guns pointed directly at him.

“Okay fellas. No need to get trigger happy here. Now I’ll go with you calmly if you will do me this one solid: let me finish my drink.”

The tension hung thick in the air and you peeked around broad purple shoulders to look at the cops. About eight in total, surely with more outside and on the way. They were inching closer, a few feet away now.

He didn’t even give the cops a moment to respond, he was already reaching for the two shots.

“You low life scum, you’re gonna rot in prison with the rest of your gang of assholes!”

_Mistake._

The two shots went down in a flash and the cowboy hat was suddenly back atop his head. Like a big cat pouncing on prey, he grabbed a cop by the collar and punched him in the face. Immediately, he lunged for another, another hit across the jaw before pushing him back into three more cops to knock them to the ground.

Gun fire started ringing in your ears as you ducked behind the bar for cover. Seconds felt like hours before a purple and orange blur fell to the ground next to you. He brushed off non existent dust from his shoulders and removed the now cracked sunglasses. He looked you dead in the eyes.

“Did that look cool?”

“What?”

“The combat dive over the bar. Did that look cool?”

“I…I really didn’t see it.”

“…Shit.”

Before you could say anything else more gun fire, hitting the bottles behind the bar and shattering them. You lamented the thought of your boss’s anger over the wasted top shelf liquor. A hand wrapped around your wrist and pulled you away, keeping you low to the ground as the two of you passed into the back storage room.

A foot collided with the emergency exit door and suddenly the two of you were in the alleyway, climbing into a purple and orange super car that was not parked out here earlier.

The two of you drove in silence until you couldn’t take it any longer.

“Who the hell are you? Where the hell are we going? What do you think you’re doing? Why did you take me?”

“Well that just leaves ‘when’ and ‘how much’ doesn’t it?”

You glowered at him. He took a hand off the steering wheel and offered it to you.

“Lil J. Fake AH Crew. Currently we are driving out to Mount Chiliad to escape the cops because I stole a large amount of money.”

“That doesn’t answer why—“

“And I took you because you looked like you needed an escape more than I did. And I was being _shot_ at by cops.”

Feeling tension you didn’t know you were holding in your shoulders release, you chuckled out a sigh. 

“Fair enough.”

A long drive up the mountain meant the two of you reached the top just as sunlight peeked through on the horizon. You followed him close behind as he walked into the building that houses the cable car platform. You could just see a gondola approaching, and to your right Jeremy stood at the edge of the platform, clearly waiting for something. Or someone.

The cable car pulled into the platform and after a beat the doors slid open, three people walking out all at once. 

“Lil J you goddamned son of a bitch!” A hand clapped against Jeremy’s back while he shook hands with the other two figures.

“I can’t believe that fucking worked! Handing off the dye pack bills to Gavin right as they blew was brilliant. He’s so pissed!”

As if on queue, you heard the sound of a motorcycle engine pulling up. Short, quick steps followed and you heard a British accent yelling as he burst onto the platform.

“Jeremy you abSOLUTE SHORTARSE—“

“Easy there, Grouchy Smurf. It will wash off,” a body followed who you assumed was Gavin inside, hair tied back in a pony tail and rubbing face paint off with a wash rag.

As all of this was happening, a man in a suit and tie was crying with laughter at the Jackson Pollack-esque splattering of blue dye across Gavin’s face. You didn’t notice the person in a Hawaiian shirt circle the platform until she stood behind you.

“Uh, hey guys, who is this?”

Suddenly you felt very small.

“Oh this is the bartender who bought you guys some time to clear out the Union Depository. Pours a mean shot, by the way.”

You nodded in agreement while the wheels in your head turned. The crew was all shaking hands and sharing celebratory beverage in front of you.

Wait a minute.

“The news said that the robbery was at Fleeca, not the UD.”

The crew paused and looked over at you. Jeremy shrugged in your direction.

“Fleeca was a distraction. Big explosions and flashy getaway to drawing most of the LSPD to a location across town while someone else skims the off the top from the biggest federal reserve bank on the west coast.”

The man with half a face of face paint provided you with a visual example. He gave a flourish of his wrist and wildly gestured in front of Gavin, only to have his other hand smack the gold sunglasses from Gavin’s face.

“So what do you guys do now?”

Jeremy walked towards you. “Well, usually we all take some time off, spend some of our earnings on frivolous things, and plan for the next score.”

“Next score?”

“Well, we are career criminals and all. Y’know…it’s a living,” Jeremy replied nonchalantly.

“No, me being a bartender wearing this stupid vest and tie is a living.”

“Hey, don’t knock the vest and tie combo,” the man in the suit said quietly.

“Is it really making a living when you’re skimming you tips off the top instead of putting them in the jar?”

“It’s a vase, but I guess you have a point.”

Jeremy beamed from cheek to cheek as he wrapped a hand around your shoulder. “Then by all means, let me talk to you about an exclusive job opportunity.”

He lead you away from the group and back to his gaudy car, painting a fairly optimistic picture about the illustriouscareer of crime.

A month later you were using your skills as a former mixologist to pick locks at Humane Labs.

You had no regrets.


End file.
